


Fever

by Edonohana



Category: The Collared Knight - Tara McGolden
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Character Reassured They Are Allowed To Rest, Character expects to be punished for failure but is shown unexpected concern, Character ordered to rest tries to work anyways, Delirium, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shivering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/pseuds/Edonohana
Summary: A feverish Farnesse decides the household chores absolutely won't wait.
Relationships: Farnesse/Lio/Ralston
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caracalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caracalliope/gifts).



Farnesse was glad when he got sick. The chills-and-fever illness was going around the town, so odds were one of them would catch it. The bottle had spun, and stopped pointing at Farnesse. And he was glad, because it wasn’t Ralston or Lio.

He didn’t tell that to either of them. Lio would point out that if it was catching, Farnesse getting it meant they all would, and Ralston would scowl and say it was only worth being glad if none of them got it. But Farnesse knew better. Lio scrubbed his hands and made sure Ralston did too, and all three of them escaping even a minor unpleasantness was too much to hope for. The universe just didn’t work like that… even if sometimes, when he woke up with Lio’s red hair in his face and Ralston’s strong arm flung over his shoulders, it kind of felt like it did. 

With all three of them in one cozy bed, knowing each other’s bodies by heart, there was no chance that Farnesse’s rising temperature and fits of shivering would escape notice. 

“I’ll make you some hot tea with honey,” Lio said, and vanished toward the kitchen.

Farnesse wasn’t worried. The illness was very brief, lasting just a day or so. If Lio and Ralston hadn’t caught it already, they might well dodge it if they stayed out of the house for a while. And luckily, they’d already intended to do just that. 

Ralston strode toward the telephone. 

“What’re you doing?” Farnesse asked. 

Ralston turned back, the receiver in his hand. “Canceling our meeting, of course.”

Farnesse scrambled out of bed and wrested the receiver from his hand. It took more effort than it should have, and he suspected Ralston let him win. But the click was still satisfying when he hung up the phone. “Don’t cancel your meeting for me. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” growled Ralston. 

Farnesse couldn’t fool him, not after all this time together. Maybe not ever. But that went both ways. Farnesse knew Ralston too, and he knew how much it meant to him and Lio that their work on Red Pines would succeed. 

He also knew the one tactic that might succeed _on_ Ralston. Farnesse got back in bed and pulled up the covers. “I’ll drink Lio’s tea, stay in bed, and get some rest. You’ll both be back before I even finish napping. I’ll probably be fine by then.”

Lio, returning with a mug of tea, glanced at Ralston. “I could stay with him while you go. The negotiations are at a delicate stage—it could go very badly if you miss this meeting.”

“It’d be better if _you_ went and _I_ stayed,” Ralston muttered.

Farnesse pressed his case. “Just go. Both of you. No one’s gotten seriously ill from this thing. I’m not a child who needs watching.”

“No, you’re a boy who gets in trouble whenever I turn my back,” said Ralston. 

“It _isn’t_ a serious illness if you rest,” Lio said, a little doubtfully. “And we’ll only be gone half the day.”

“Fine.” Ralston turned to Farnesse. “Rest, you hear me? That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” said Farnesse, smiling. He’d have sketched out a salute, but he could feel his hands trembling under the covers.

They left him a thermos of hot tea and a plate of buttered toast, along with more books and pillows and blankets than any man could possibly use in half a day. He drank the tea and ate the toast, and tried to read the books. But the words blurred and quivered, and he _was_ tired. He’d been ordered to rest, so he would. Farnesse closed his eyes.

He drifted between sleep and dreaming, between past and present. At times gunshots jarred him awake, only for him to find no war when he opened his eyes. _I’m in Ralston’s house,_ he reminded himself. _The war is over._ But each time he closed his eyes, he forgot again.

It was a nagging sense that he’d forgotten to do something that finally forced him out of bed. The garden needed tending, and that was his job. Ralston and Lio would return and find all the plants wilted, and Farnesse having slacked in his duty. If another war broke out, they’d need the turnips and potatoes dug up and stored in the cellar. They’d need every scrap of growing green to prevent scurvy. And Farnesse knew well how precious a scrap of fresh food could be, when all you’d had for months or years were those pressed brown squares that looked and tasted like cardboard. For all he knew, that was exactly what they were. Maybe they’d all survived solely on what they’d managed to scavenge.

He got out of bed, staggered, and fetched up against the wall. The whitewashed surface was pleasantly cool, so he stood there for a while, alterately pressing his forehead and cheek into it. But he had work to do. He’d marched when he was sick and starving and freezing and bleeding, and he marched himself down the stairs and into the garden. 

Farnesse was vaguely puzzled to find the air cold and the sky a gunmetal overcast. He could’ve sworn it was the height of summer. There was even snow underfoot, melting into ice water and soaking through his soft cloth slippers. Those bastards hadn’t even bothered to issue him proper boots. 

Well, a soldier made do. He grabbed a shovel and got to work. 

The meeting dragged on and on. Lio alternated between being glad they’d come—they really were essential—and worried about Farnesse back home. It _wasn’t_ a serious illness if you took it easy and didn’t push yourself hard, nothing worth calling a mage for. But Lio kept thinking of brown hair darkened with sweat and the careful way Farnesse had kept his hands under the covers, and he worried. At his side, Ralston didn’t fidget, but the tension of his muscles made Lio think he wanted to. 

They drove back the instant the meeting was over. On the way home, Lio convinced himself that they’d find Farnesse peacefully sleeping, his fever broken. He could see it in his mind’s eye: dark hair spread out silky-soft against the white pillow, beautiful mouth opening wide to yawn when he woke to the sound of their footsteps…

“Oh, fuck,” said Ralston, and slammed on the brakes. He was out of the car and running before it had stopped vibrating, and Lio wasn’t far behind.

Farnesse was on his knees in the snowy, barren garden, trying to pull himself to his feet using the shovel as a crutch. He wore nothing but the thin shorts he’d slept in and the slippers Lio had bought him a few months ago, both soaked through and covered in mud. He was wet and shivering, his sensual lips dark with cold, but his cheeks were flushed a hectic crimson and his eyes were far too bright. But the worst of it was his expression when he saw them. He actually flinched, looking guilty and and afraid. As if he thought they would hurt them.

No. Worse. As if he thought they would hurt him, and it would be his own fault.

Farness looked at both of them ( _plural you_ , Lio thought, and not with the pleasure that phrase normally evoked in him) and stammered, “I—I’m sorry. I could still finish, I think, if you’d be willing to give me more time.”

“Finish what?” Lio burst out. “What are you doing?”

“He’s delirious,” said Ralston, as if Lio didn’t know. 

But Farnesse answered him anyway. “Digging up the potatoes. So we can eat during the war.”

As Lio had sought to know why, even though he could already tell the real answer would be “because I’m off my head with fever,” Ralston went still with horror at that reply, even though he knew the real reason was the same. But he moved quick as the soldier he’d been when the shovel slipped from Farnesse’s hands and he started to crumple to the ground. Ralston caught him before he could hit, hauled him over his shoulders, and stood with a grunt and an audible crack of the knees.

“Get a hot bath running,” Ralston called over his shoulder, and Lio scrambled to obey. 

He ran into the house and to the bathroom, then spent far too long messing with the taps, trying to recall whether water should be hot or merely warm or very warm but not quite hot for hypothermia. He’d have gone to the library to check if Ralston hadn’t come into the bathroom just then, and Lio instinctively reached up to help him get Farnesse’s shorts off (the ruined slippers had fallen off at some point while he’d been carried) and then to lay Farnesse in the bath. 

Farnesse woke and began to struggle when he touched the water. Lio reached out, but Ralston barked, “Get back!”

Lio backed off, his heart pounding. He never quite forgot how dangerous Farnesse was, but it had never occurred to him that his strength and skill at killing could be a danger to _him_. And yet he wasn’t afraid _of_ Farnesse. He was afraid _for_ him.

Maybe that was why Ralston had sounded so alarmed. Maybe, knowing the both of them, he’d been less worried for Lio and more than Farnesse would hurt him accidentally and then never forgive himself. 

“Farnesse, it’s Ralston and Lio. Do you know where you are?”

From across the room and edging closer, Lio watched slow recognition come to Farnesse’s eyes. “The house.”

“You’re cold and sick,” Ralston said. “Lie still. We’re just warming you up.”

Farnesse looked confused, but obeyed. Lio returned to his side, helping Ralston wash the mud and sweat from his skin. The texture of his skin and scars was so familiar, but his shivering wasn’t. And when the chill left it, he quickly began to grow hot again.

Farnesse looked up at them with a dull hopelessness that made Lio feel sick. “Why are you bothering with this? Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with?” Lio asked, when Ralston was silent.

“My punishment,” Farnesse said, his hazel gaze sliding past Lio and fixing on Ralston. “I failed. I had to bring in the harvest, and…”

“There is no harvest!” Lio found his fingers digging into the hard muscle of Farnesse’s arm with his urgency to make him understand. Then he saw Ralston’s quick head-shake, and he shut up.

“There won’t be any punishment,” said Ralston. There was no gentleness in his voice; it was all in his eyes. “You didn’t fail. It was a test. Not to see if you’d complete the task, but to see if you’d try your hardest. Did you?”

“Yes,” sighed Farnesse.

“I thought so. Good work. Now, I give you permission to rest.” 

At that, Farnesse relaxed, his eyelids fluttering shut. Lio didn’t dare say anything aloud, but he met Ralston’s green eyes, trying to convey who had really done the good work. Ralston gave him a short nod: understood.

They wrestled Farnesse out of the bath and dried him off, then into clean pajamas and then into bed. There was so much of him, and he was so heavy. His hair kept getting caught and yanked, which had to hurt, but he didn’t stir. By the time they got him tucked in, with blankets piled high and the fire built up, Lio was exhausted, even though Ralston had done most of the work. 

They crawled into bed, one on either side of Farnesse, sharing their warmth with him. His breathing was soft and deep, and his heartbeat felt strong. But it was a long time before Lio could sleep, and he wasn’t sure if Ralston ever did.

It was late morning when Lio awoke. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he saw Farnesse sitting up in bed, drinking a mug of tea while Ralston sat beside him, eating a plate of scrambled eggs. 

A happiness as warm as the snow had been cold spread through Lio’s heart. “You’re better!”

“See if we ever leave you home alone again,” said Ralston. “Were you _trying_ to maneuver us out of the house?”

“I was,” Farnesse admitted. “I was afraid you’d catch what I had.”

“You idiot,” said Lio. “Even if we did, we wouldn’t all get it at once. You’d be there to stop us from going outside and nearly work ourselves to death in an imaginary potato patch!”

“No, _you’d_ nearly study yourself to death in the library, trying to find the cure,” said Farnesse. “Ralston would nearly work himself to death building a better bed for us.”

“You were still an idiot to send us away,” Lio said. 

“I suppose I was,” Farnesse admitted.

“You were,” said Ralston. “But you’re _our_ idiot.”


End file.
